Some people take sporting clays a little too seriously. Me? I'm just out there to admire other people's guns, relax and generally have a good time. Because let's face it friends, there are champion shooters—and then there's us.

Ben O'Brien may be a whitetail fanatic, but he always turns down my invitations to shoot clays. In fact, I was going to give up until Federal Premium produced a limited quantity of pink Top Gun Target loads to benefit breast cancer research. If I know Ben O'Brien, he's going to head straight to the clays range, because the only things he loves more than deer hunting are charity and pretty colors:

Fiocchi says its new "Chemical Tracer" shotshells are "the most advanced training aid for trap, skeet and sporting clay shooters alike--see where you are missing." I'm not sure they'll improve my shooting (I suspect I'd actually pull my head to watch the fireball screaming from my barrel), but who cares, they're just plain cool!

If you consider yourself a duck hunter but have never looked to the skies from your blind and asked, "Just what in the hell am I doing here?" either you have no care for your financial or physical well-being, or you aren’t paying very close attention. We spend more money on guns, boats, decoys and other waterfowl accoutrements than any mother in-law would ever approve of, just to lather it all in December marsh slop. Our trucks are dented from sliding into obstacles backing down icy boat ramps, and their wiring is shot from the strain of trailer-light illumination. It’s too hot in teal season, too darn cold by the time the mallards arrive. The wind either blows too hard, not hard enough or in the wrong direction. Or it rains. Not just a sprinkle, but the kind of downpour in which no self-respecting duck would ever fly. Unfortunately for us, old Fred believes ducks fly in the rain, and if one member of the group wants to hunt, we all hunt.